


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑀𝑎𝑐𝑏𝑒𝑡ℎ

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [28]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Case Fic, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Questionable Police Shooting, Self-Harm, Surrealism, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, reader-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝑀𝑎𝑐𝑏𝑒𝑡ℎ from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#macbethThis book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read thePrefaceorIntroduction, please head there first.
Relationships: JT Tarmel/Tally Tarmel
Series: Domino 🁡 [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Kudos: 1
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑀𝑎𝑐𝑏𝑒𝑡ℎ

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Macbeth](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685360) by William Shakespeare. 



> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[Macbeth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macbeth) \- William Shakespeare  
>  **— Cover Song:**[Ashes](https://youtu.be/ZTGe9K9EW-0) \- Claire Guerreso

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/macbeth.jpg) |   
---|---  
  
Malcolm runs his hands under the water in the bathroom sink. The stream is too hot, and they shake violently. Red, red, red pours down, flooding the basin, yet red remains.

He tries rubbing with his hands first, in between all the nooks and crannies with a surgeon’s precision. Glides over his knuckles, wraps around his thumbs, presses against his nail beds, but he still sees red.

The loofah comes next, grabbed from the shower. Then a nailbrush, the rough side of a sponge from under the sink. Nothing but red lingers. 

He relocates to the kitchen to find better implements. Retrieving steel wool from the countertop, he rakes it across his skin as if he’s scouring a cast iron pan. The harder he scrubs, the more he fails — a whole river of crimson soon runs down the drain.

Pain is out of reach, somewhere with the suspect that had been left at the scene. He’d spent half an hour trying to talk him down, yet when the suspect reached for him, shots were fired and Malcolm ended up with the suspect on top of him, bleeding out.

Malcolm’s hands were covered in crimson, his suit ruined, his whole frame shaking with anger at the senseless death of the suspect. The suspect had been reaching for him, not threatening, not maiming, not actively trying to squeeze the life force out of his body. The suspect should still be _alive_.

Malcolm can’t get the blood off his hands. The steel wool isn’t working. A peeler? A cheese grater? It shreds carrots and mozzarella just fine — maybe it would work to clean skin.

He digs in the cabinets, searching for the tool that rarely gets used. His last foray had likely been latkes, a meal with friends that hadn’t upset his stomach very much. Going through the effort for himself? It wasn’t happening.

A series of banging raps pound against the front door, but he continues on his quest. “Malcolm? C’mon kid, let me in,” Gil says, fear and frustration in his voice.

Had Gil tried to call or something? Malcolm isn’t expecting him. Why does he sound upset? Preoccupied with finding the grater, the fevered knocking persists.

“Bright? I’m gonna use the key.” It’s then that Malcolm realizes maybe he’s working on things in the wrong priority order.

Malcolm finds his prize and has the grater running over the back of his hand when he sees Gil in front of him across the counter, then beside him. The grater disappears in the strong grip of Gil’s fingers. “I need — “ Malcolm says, but Gil’s hands tightly gripping both of his wrists cuts him off. A dish towel is squeezed around both of his hands a second later.

“Can you look at me?”

Malcolm complies and finds a fountain of worry leaking from Gil’s eyes. Tears haven’t hit his cheeks, but Malcolm can tell that’s the direction it’s going. What happened worse than the day’s events?

“I’m gonna take you to the hospital,” Gil says, squeezing both hands a little tighter. “I know it’s not your first choice, but we need to go.”

“I’m fine — I’m just washing my hands,” Malcolm replies, twisting his hands as if asking to be released to continue.

“Kid, you had a shock earlier, and I’m worried about permanent damage.”

Damage? “Let me finish washing my hands first.”

“ _No!_ ” Gil’s voice is stern. He grips Malcolm’s hands tighter so he can’t pull away. “Bright, do you not feel this at all?”

“What?”

“Your hands are raw,” Gil says matter-of-factly, but Malcolm doesn’t see the problem.

“No.”

“We’re going to the hospital, c’mon.” Gil pulls him toward the door and only lets him put slippers on before they leave.

Sitting in the front seat of the Le Mans, an elastic bandage from Gil’s first-aid kit crudely wrapped around the dish towel to keep pressure on both of Malcolm’s hands, he continues spotting red. Bits of the blue towel visible have darkened to navy, and the neutral elastic absorbs the crimson as well.

“Did something happen?” Malcolm asks, unable to separate his two hands as Gil bound them together.

Gil weaves between cars, driving as fast as he can manage in the city traffic. “Do you feel dizzy? Confused?” He steals a glance over at him.

“Angry,” Malcolm admits. “Numb.”

“Are you hallucinating?” When Malcolm doesn’t respond, Gil adds, “You can tell me.”

Malcolm gives a small head shake and loses himself out the window. “No.”

The next thing Malcolm knows, his hands are wrapped up like a mummy and questions leave him thinking they want to move him to the psychiatric floor. The trio of doctors and nurse patter on seeking answers, but Malcolm’s not interested. “Gil?” Gil’s face instantly comes into view.

“When our examination’s done — “ one doctor starts, tapping the clipboard. The psychiatrist, Malcolm guesses. He’s seen enough in his lifetime to spot one trying to assess him.

“I’d just like to go home,” Malcolm says. Gil didn’t need to bring him here. Malcolm doesn’t need this. He needs a safe place — his home.

“You’ll get there in the long run,” the same doctor repeats.

Do any of them actually listen to him? Or are they so preoccupied with their checklists they’ve disregarded their patient?

“It was an accident, okay?” Malcolm scooches further away from the medical team’s advance. “I got carried away.”

Gil doesn’t say anything. Just looks on, watching Malcolm fight an internal battle, none of the staff touching him. Malcolm needs Gil to say something. He pleads with his eyes, gives his best impression of puppy-dog helplessness, but nothing happens.

Does Malcolm stay or does he go home? He doesn’t remember how long passes, but he’s sitting in his living room, voices cackling from the corner. “ _Wash your hands_ ,” they say, and he looks down to blooming shades of red.

A man’s dead because of him.

He’ll never wash the blood off his hands.

— ◌◯◌ —

“A. S. Harper is an American mystery and crime novelist. Her books have sold over 100 million copies,” JT reads from the Wikipedia page. A huge table holds every work she’s ever created with links to further details on each title. “No social media pages, no photos. Pretty popular for seeming so reclusive.”

Dani stops reading off of his screen from her desk and glances at her notebook. “Veronica was all over the news a couple weeks ago celebrating the success of an up and coming writer — Lane Eylis,” she shares. “There’s highlights of Veronica’s twenty-year career in some of the transcripts.” While JT researches the writer they learned about on scene, she looks into the victim. With their combined efforts, they hope to come to an intersection, a light illuminating the pathway that connects them.

“So she’s good at what she does.”

“Did the beachfront property give you another indication?” When JT’s face doesn’t share that he’s enthused, she adds, “She has a thorough public presence. It seems somewhat… necessary for Lead Acquiring Editor.”

“So she has a whole team?”

“Seems like it.” From what she’d been able to derive from LinkedIn, Veronica has several connections who refer to her as their boss. They might not presently work with her, yet she expects some of them do.

“More people to talk to.”

“She kept a journal. Not the _dear diary_ sort of thing, more of a scratch pad of whatever she was working on.” Veronica’s thoughts are grouped on the photographs of unlined pages, bound in a custom toile wallpaper. Orchid varieties live on one of the pages while title ideas scatter another. _Tuesday’s Expedition. The Man, Tuesday. Cursed Tuesday. The Day After._ “She cared a lot about what she was working on — you can see it in her attention to detail here. Working seems where she was comfortable.” She runs the cap at the back of her pen across her lip. “I’m still thinking family first. The biggest rift seems to be there — there’s nothing about them in that house — more likely motive. Lots of family money.”

“That might not work here — if they’re not in the house, maybe they don’t ever interact and no potential reason for motive. Think about it. Something happens to Bright, Gil, you, me — we’re the people who know most about him.”

They’ve already had this argument once as they considered next steps, and she still doesn’t feel there’s sufficient evidentiary support to change her mind. “Special circumstance. We are his family. Plus his mother, sister — “

“What if it were you?” JT levels his gaze at her, and her lip twitches at the implied personal connection as he takes a step too far.

“Then you’d be working off a profile instead of drawing from our expertise,” she snaps. They haven’t heard how Bright is doing yet, and her patience is lost somewhere in the mountain of books they sorted through on scene. They have an opportunity to demonstrate their capability independently for the first time in over a year, and she doesn’t want to spend it arguing. Her skin tingles with the drive to figure out what hurt their friend, leaving her biting back the temptation to fidget.

JT puts his hands up in surrender. “Hey, it’s not much different for me. You’d call Tally, but the other important people are you all. We spend a lot of time at work, have a lot of friends at work. It’s not a bad thing — it just is.”

No one waits for her at home. Though she’d welcome the occasional company, it doesn’t come, she too tired to make an effort to seek a date and leaving it up to chance seems… dangerous. Most days she doesn’t mind the quiet, yet it’s not exactly a good thing either. “Gil would say it’s a bad thing. Situations like — “ She gestures her hands around. “ — _this_ make it a bad thing. You’re projecting — other people don’t get as invested as us.”

“They do.” JT sighs. “You just said you thought she was most comfortable working.”

Where she probably felt safe, _needed_. The less likely people to be involved in her murder. She glares back, unwilling to back down based on what she’s learned thus far.

“We can go your way — family, then coworkers.” He pauses, his mouth shifting as he appears to mull over something. “You’re doing the same thing.”

Dani walks away in a huff to retrieve a fresh cup of tea. Or at least that’s what she tells herself so she doesn’t end up fighting with her teammate. He’s not _wrong_ but that doesn’t mean she appreciates the sentiment either. It’s not exactly the easiest thing to compartmentalize while investigating a murder linked to her friend’s injury.

Their friend.

She gives JT space because they both need it. They’re both facing the same challenge of balancing, and they’ll be much more effective together.

She sips her tea.

Breathes.

Waits.

Thinks.

And takes her next steps back to her teammate.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another book. :)


End file.
